He's My Witness

If there was any lurking possibility that I would feel compelled to take in a stray animal, this past week has sealed that door FOREVER. I had the glorious experience of watching my sitemate’s dog, who was conveniently neutered a few days prior to my start date. When I first went to get the dog it was dressed in a black toga to cover the wound. Now…the idea of walking a dog, not to mention on a leash, is quite a novel idea in these parts, so the fact that I was walking a dog dressed for Caesar’s reincarnation ball did not go under Campulung’s Foreigner Radar. Secondly, since this so called dog walking business is relatively new, you can bet there is no Scoop the Poop Law, regulation nor rule of thumb. Besides, there’s already enough other animal shit on the ground that it really makes no difference. So envision walking down the populated “sidewalk” and your dog stops to relieve himself right in the middle of it all. You awkwardly await as others pass by, the dog finishes, you shrug your shoulders and continue on your way. Yeah, didn’t feel quite right to me either. Nevertheless, I finally got to contribute to the filth of the streets…well, not directly. Lastly, in a town heavily populated with stray dogs you are generally left in quite a vulnerable state having the only leashed dog in hand. Fact: Leashed dog inevitably equals dog gang advancements. It’s a wonderment that I haven’t lost a phalange. One late night walk I was fortunate to have someone come with me for things could have gone terribly awry. We heard a harsh, potentially destructive bark closing in on us and of course a few furry friends ensued. I quickly commanded a rock pick up but to our dismay, they were all frozen to the ground. As the dogs pressed on, we frantically searched the rough terrain also known as a sidewalk for lose rocks or anything really…of course the one time I could have used one of those abandoned shoes, there were none to be found. Perseverance was our savior. We made it back safely but not without several abnormally large rocks in hand. Another evening, I had the pleasure of meeting the vet on the street so he could check the dog’s lady bits. There was a need for some medication, so right there on the side of the street the vet gave the dog a shot. Honestly, I’m concerned that when I return in two years I will have no recollection of how to behave in the streets of Minnesota.

At any rate, Thanksgiving was surprisingly a great success. I believe there were approximately 16 Peace Corps Volunteers, 5 Romanians and 2 Turkeys, which we had to get from the closest big city two hours away. Regardless of my lack of kitchen utensils, seating arrangements and heat, things were extremely enjoyable. I didn’t even run out of gas for my stove until the following day. The food was delicious and often inventive. The Romanians in attendance were surprised by how good the turkey tasted, a few had never eaten it before. Friday we frolicked through Campulung (of course the wooden spoon museum was closed) and went sledding. In attempt to buy a sled, we were told that we would have to go to Suceava, same place we got the turkeys. Consequently, my blow up raft (originally attended for the Moldova River), a cardboard box, 2 plastic bags and a plastic laundry tub served as our sleds. Our success…well, that’s all in the eye of the beholder. We got a few good runs in but the rocks really tore us a new one. Oh yeah, the blow up raft was not inflated. The week before, my sitemate and I took it for its maiden voyage down my road. It popped the second time down but not before an extremely old man approached us to inform us that the raft was intended for water.

On a side note, on Friday we brought a bunch of our garbage to the dumpsters behind a Bloc and within five minutes, no lie, the turkey carcass had been found and set aside to be brought home. Life is intriguing.

On Saturday we had several departures and new arrivals so we did Thanksgiving again. You can’t ever have too many Thanksgivings. This time it was hosted at my sitemate’s Bloc, so on the way over we stopped at the piata to buy some homemade wine. It was later in the day and almost everyone had left. The people we asked did not have anymore wine at their stand but told us to jump in their car and we’d go get some. The three of us hopped in and a few minutes later we arrived behind the man’s Bloc. His truck was there and in the back he had 2 large barrels of wine. Unfortunately he did not have a cap for his reused plastic bottle so we got to walk through town with a large open jug of wine.

On Sunday, eight of us headed to Vatra Dornei to check out the skiing scene. Obviously the bus schedule had changed so we were stranded in Campulung. Two friendly guys passing by offered to take us part of the way but ended up taking us the entire way because we were so much fun. The (yes THE) ski slope wasn’t quite what one would envision for a mountainous area. Nonetheless, it was a fabulous time and far cheaper than we expected. It cost 5 RON per hour to rent equipment, so I paid approximately 5 American Dollars to ski for 3 hours. The equipment was pretty amazing and often felt as if I were skiing on 2x4’s. The T-bar was a thrill a minute, probably more of a work out than anything else that day. We probably had at least one man down each round up, which immediately results in two down. Instead of paying for a daily lift ticket, you pay for each time you go up, so you can bet we figured out how to get back on that devil t-bar.

Once December came, Campulung Moldovenesc put up a giant Christmas tree on the Plateau and put up lights on the main street, giving it that small town feel. It is quite pretty; we just need our snow to come back now. It really has not felt like Christmas but my sitemates and I have been doing our best to get into the spirit. We made a wreath out of real evergreen branches that we conveniently found for free. I tell you, some of the things I find myself doing here have never even crossed my mind before and now they just tickle me pink. One slow afternoon I made some cookies with intentions of bringing some over to the neighbor, who previously that week said I was Anglo Saxon and distant compared to the previous volunteer I replaced, who was Latino and friendly (but technically, in real life, she isn’t Latino.) Either way, I was I feeling a bit homesick and ate them all. Better luck next time. Last weekend, I was mourning missing out on Ugly Christmas Sweater parties and realized I would not be attending any holiday parties this year, so I had a Mexican Christmas party with two sitemates. I had obtained some Mexican ingredients from the good ole U.S. of A and we found the ever coveted avocados for Guacamole. Although it was Mexican with a Romanian flair, it was the best thing that I had ingested in months. Speaking of which, I think I have now officially eaten all parts of a pig. The brain done up like a snitel actually was not too terrible.

I’m not sure how but I believe that I have failed to mention that my Romanian tutor is a Jehovah Witness. Not that it’s a big deal but rather interesting, as I did not imagine encountering that religious sector here. There is never any pressure of conversion or religion in general, which is appreciated. However, we do practice my reading comprehension from a Jehovah Witness magazine, which is somewhat interesting but also causes my vocabulary to be very subject specific. All along I have joked (with myself of course) that when I get my language skills tested again that they’ll be like, “well, quite frankly we don’t know how you get through daily life but you do have a strange knack for discussing Jehovah Witnesses.” Low and behold, “I be up in the gym working on my fitness…he’s my witness;” working with the Witness allowed me a triumph in the daily life. One of the several times I went to the train station over Thanksgiving weekend I met Tico, a Jehovah Witness, who apparently does his recruiting at the Gara. Unfortunately, Megan and I had a good twenty minutes before her train arrived, so Tico engaged in heavy conversation. He expressed that he just loves Americans and proceeded to take out his bible to point out all the places it discusses Jehovah Witnesses followed by, “Intersant, nu?” Tico attempted to give us reading materials but I let him know who my tutor was and assured him that I already had the materials. In fact, Tico didn’t even have the most recent issue…I let him know he would just love the newest one. Megan was a bit baffled as to why I knew what this man had been saying (and truth be told, so was I) but I let her know I had the inside connections…He’s my Witness….whooooh!

Morning Glory

What a glorious day! As soon as I woke up it began to snow and within an hour the ground and roof tops were covered in a white blanket. It's so beautiful to see the trees bedazzled - I've been waiting to see this for days. My counterpart even called to see if I was finally pleased because apparently all I've talked about for the past month is when it was going to snow. It's strange how much a bit of snow can uplift my mood!

By 11am the internet went out but that's not so abnormal as a bout of wind or rain or even sun for that matter can cause it to malfunction. Instead of checking my email, I went to shower but no water - again, not that out of the ordinary. Alas, I went to the fridge to see what wonderful dish I just might whip up today and discovered that the power was out as well. Oh my, a little snow and it all goes to pot, this could be a long winter. Nevertheless, I was still quite excited about the snow, so I put on my long underwear, performed a little Europa FM jazzercise to warm up and continued winterizing my wardrobe. I figured I might as well go out to enjoy the splendor and run some errands.

Walking into town I attempted to catch some snowflakes on my tongue but quickly realized that my jerky head movements resembled a drastic tick. I immediately ceased that movement as I'm finally getting to know my neighbors...I don't want to go back to being the crazy American. Down the street they are building a ridiculously gianormous house and I've come to routinely speak with one of the workers as I walk by each day. Earlier this summer, my running struck his curiousity and one day he stopped me to ask what in the world I was doing and why. Our acquaintenceship only blossomed from there. When his work consists of digging holes, which strangely appears to be at least once a week, he likes to joke that he is digging to America.

Although it's Saturday and the bank is closed, I was still able to successfully access the ATM - sometimes I get nervous that technology will fail and I will get trapped in the entrance so I usually stick to open bank hours. I wasn't entirely sure if the electricity place (yes you still have to pay your bills in person here) and post office were open so I headed there next, no such luck. However, I was able to find a store open to buy more credit for my phone. As I walked through town, I noticed they were setting up a stage on the Plateau. Could it be true? Maybe there was going to be an outdoor concert in the snow. Just around the riverbend I ran into a man, who had approached me on the street two months ago asking if I was American. How do they know? And even before I utter a stutter of Romanian? It's not like I go streaking through the quad waving a giant American Flag. That's one thing that will never to cease to amaze me...unless of course, I find out what that tipping point is. Any hooters, he explained there would be some Popular (folk) dancing on the Plateau tonight. Just when I didn't think this day could get any better; I have been yearning for some form of live entertainment or any entertainment not produced by my imagination. However, he then started talking about chess and that Bobby Fischer was going to be at the High School next Tuesday, so perhaps I was not understanding him correctly because isn't Bobby Fischer dead? I'll just have to wait and see.

I continued onto the Piata to buy some fresh produce and I noticed the vendors were almost down to just root vegetables - potatoes, carrots, onions. I passed two Roma ladies dressed in traditional Gypsy garb, who I recognized from a few days ago. One of them had been performing some type of magic voodoo on a man (I apologize that I don't know what it was exactly, please excuse my ignorance, I will be sure to do my homework.) She had been talking to the man and at the end made a hand motion, as if she were releasing powder or dust, towards his mouth and then his unit. Absolutely fascinating, I must find out more. Today, when I walked by she said she had just the thing for me but I kindly declined because many of the vendors make such offers. I bought onions from my favorite lady, who is extremely patient with my Romanian and often encourages further discussion, for which I'm quite grateful.

On my way to the super market, I ran into two of my sitemates on seperate accounts. We agreed to meet up later to make dinner and check out the "concert." After getting my groceries I headed home satisfied with my progress. An older neighbor lady, who reminds me of a combination of both my grandmas, met me at her gate. She expressed disappointment that I did not stop by the other day when she had asked. I apologized and explained I must have misunderstood her. Nevertheless, she smiled, tweaked my cheek like I was 5 and gave me a plate of food to take home. When I reached my nextdoor neighbor's house, she was waiting for me with my mail (for some reason it goes to her house.) When I asked how she was, she replied unhappily, "Ce sa fac? What to do? There is no water, power, etc." For some reason when I smiled and stated in agreement, "nope, nothing," a small smile broke across her face - the first one I've ever seen. I climbed my stairs, stomped my boots and took in one last breath of the fresh snow air. I could not have been happier.

Although...I watched Into the Wild last night and at the end he realized that "happiness is only true when shared." That exact sentiment is what makes this experience difficult. I definitely am not isolated in the wilderness of Alaska but I do have a lot of me time, so it was humorous to see some of the similarities of how one fills that time - talking to yourself, having loud random outbursts, etc. Well, time to fac foc. I guess on days like today I can be happy that my house is heated with wood.

In Search Of A Turkey

After being in Bucharest for a couple days I arrived home at 5:30am to a nice temperature of 44 degrees Farenheit inside my humble abode so I immediately stoked up the soba. Five hours, two cups of coffe, a hot chocolate and now a tea later, I'm still bundled in my down jacket and sleeping bag. Despite the chilly interior, it still has not snowed in Campulung Moldovenesc and frankly I'm growing a bit anxious. I have not seen snow since I left home...9 months ago (exactly today). I can't believe how fast it has gone by, I'm already a third of the way done. I hope the rest does not go by too quickly.

Last Thursday was a difficult day - I just could not grasp life nor the language. All I wanted to do was get away from Romanian for the day but it is impossible from the moment I step out my front door. However, even when I am at home...there's the radio, cooking ingredients and sometimes the Landlord drops by...all Romanian. But like the good days, the bad ones also come to an end.

On the other hand, Saturday was one of the best days I've had here. I went hiking with my sitemate, Thomas and Iulian, the gym teacher from the high school. Iulian brought us to a new place that overlooks Campulung, yet another beautiful view. We saw wild boar tracks, which obviously terrified and forced me to develop an escape route up the tree. 800lb piglets shouldn't be able to climb trees, right? Well, for that matter neither can I so praise 8lb 6oz baby Jesus that we did not encounter one in the flesh. We did however encounter a bunch of turkeys but the farmer was not willing to sell us one for Thanksgiving, so the hunt must go on. The highlight of the hike was going down through the forrest that was quite steep and the ground was covered completely in leaves. We were able to slide down on our butts the entire way, sometimes moving at an incredibly fast pace. Definitely one of the most enjoyable things I've done in Campulung. Yeah...so there's not a whole lot to do here.

When I went home, two neighbor ladies and my landlord were in the street cutting up a tree they had taken down. I said hello and went inside. I hesitated briefly and went directly back to where they were working. This is the kind of opportunity I have been waiting for since I moved in, one to meet my neighbors and bond, so I couldn't afford to let my nerves get the best of me. They thought I was quite odd for wanting to help but warmly accepted. Although we did not exchange many words, we got to work side by side for a good hour and a half. Another lady brought out coffee and cookies, so we "am facut o pauza," in which my not so glorious Romanian skills were demonstrated.

Afterwards, I met Thomas for Ciorba Radutieana, a delicious garlic chicken soup of which I can't get enough. The restuarant owners know us and chatted with us for a while. It's nice to know familiar faces, familiar faces that also know you. On my way home a neighbor girl approached me and asked or more so verified, "Esti Betsy? (you are Betsy?)" I had never seen her before so it was exciting to meet yet another neighbor and talk briefly. It has taken a long time but people are slowly opening up to me...it's a nice feeling to be reached out to.

That night I took the train to Bucharest with my Counterpart, Gabriela, who presented at a conference Advocacy Through Blogging about the project we've been working on. If you click on the link Blogging The Dream in the right column you can read another blog, where I write about one of the projects I have been working on with the NGO, Fundatia Orizonturi. In short, we received a grant from Global Voices to increase the use of technology amongst marginalized groups. We are currently training 15 individuals how to use the internet and eventually create blogs to share their experiences with mental health issues, as well as demonstrating that they too are functioning members of society. On the left is my favorite participant during a training.

As long as were on the topic, I'll briefly share what else I've been doing since it has been nine months and I haven't really done so yet. In addition to the one day of training we have for Blogging the Dream each week, we also have another day during the week that the participants can come in for extra help and practice what they have learned. Once a week I teach an Enlglish course for any Mental Health beneficiaries who are interested. Throughout the week, the organization has other social activities such as a game day and literary club, which I usually attend. Fundatia Orizonturi works closely with the Psychiatric Hospital, a state institution, to collaborate on various projects, so I get to hang out there as well attending pscyhotherapy groups and work on a variety of activities.

Additionally, I work at Centrul Scolar, a school for children with special needs, doing social integration. In terms of projects, not much has developed with them yet but it is slowly getting there. Several of the children come from extremly poor families and live in surrounding villages, so approximately 60 children live at the school during the week. I've been helping with an after school program so the kids have some structured activities. It's just getting off the ground but I do some English with the children who have asked to learn. Otherwise, I've just been spending time, playing with them until we are able to put together something a bit more organized. There is usually one, maybe two other adults supervising these children - it is chaos. The majority of these kids have extreme behavior issues and it's not uncommon for me to see kids young as 8 smoking, so the need for structure is definitely there.

Other weekly activites include two lessons with my Romanian tutor, a much valued time. Recently I've started to attend "aerobics" at the Cantina. Not sure how one would describe such an occasion but it takes place in an old, old wooden auditorium with about 10 other ladies in leggings. It's all about the cultural integration, and my counting has vastly improved!

Anywho, back to the conference in Bucharest. We were put up at a fancy hotel and fed amazingly! Who knew the nicest hotel I've ever stayed in would be during my Peace Corps experience? Nevertheless, no complaints here for I got to enjoy all the glorious amenities - heat, TV and never ending hot water. For the first time since I have been in Romania I had the privelege of eating steak, salmon, green olives and cheddar cheese - almost better than Thanksgiving dinner (or at least the one I will be attempting to host next week.) The conference itself was quite interesting and I was in awe of the ladies in the translation booth! We got to wear headphones, providing our language of choice - I was amazed throughout the entire experience.

Venturing to the Village

Regardless of where I am, I always seem to get a sense of nostalgia around this time of year. The time when fall gradually fades into winter and culminates with the holiday season. For me, it has always been about reviving the essence of family.

One year ago today, my godfather was driving back from working in Alaska and died unexpectedly. Finally, when his life had come together, it was taken away. My heart goes out to my Aunt, my godmother, my confidant. Not just today but every day. I love you Missy, if only there were more people like you.

Thus, my tiny village family experience this past weekend couldn’t have been more perfectly timed. However, that was not the original plan, it never is with me. Sometimes I feel as if I frequently get myself into strange predicaments but perhaps that’s just what I seek. Either way, this time around things were simply lost in translation. Originally (or so I thought) my friend invited me to a festival for a few hours in Frasin, a small town 30 km away. We were to meet there on Saturday, so I arrived via the only conventional way, which shall go unspoken for the sake of my mother’s sanity. Astonishingly, I went to the right place at the right time and found the right person. But to no avail, there was not a festival in sight. It turned out that we were actually going back to her village Doroteia and I would not be returning until the following day, which I could not argue because there was no way I’d find my way back out of BFE (Grandma, scuze but that means Bum F*#@ing Egypt.)

Back at Geta’s house, I met her husband and two adorable children. I’m pretty sure the 4 year old thought I was slightly MR because I was not able to understand everything she said. Nor could she understand why I did not have children and not once did I surpass the perpetual “but why?” game. Nevertheless, we became friends and played all afternoon. She even insisted on sleeping with me, which was fine until I experienced her night terrors sporadically throughout the night. That was not exactly in the sleepover arrangement but luckily I was able to calm her quickly with my inner chi.

In the late afternoon, we went to a small family “name” day celebration. It was St. Gabriel day, so anyone with a similar name celebrates; it’s almost like a second birthday. The four course meal was delicious but they kept making me eat more and as a result I think my meat intake has been satisfied for the remainder of 2008. Envision a giant meat and cheese tray, five layers deep…okay, now remove all the cheese, any form of garnishes and all thinly sliced deli meat…and replace with all forms of pork imaginable. Throw in a splash of mustard and you’ve got yourself a mouth-watering delectable appetizer treat. As long as were on the topic, all three men in attendance were missing a finger. An odd observation indeed but one that ironically symbolized the harsh demands of village life.

Additionally, it was interesting to discover that within each family there was at least one member working abroad in other EU countries, particularly Germany, Spain and Italy. However, this does not come as a surprise since 10% of Romanian’s population is working abroad and sending money home but it was simply more prevalent in the small community. Consequently, many low paying jobs such as construction are left open and are now slowly being filled by immigrants from Asia. Despite the need to fill these vast openings, the government is hesitant to grant visas to these immigrants because they are concerned of the race issues that could ensue.

On Sunday we walked through the village and ended at the farm of Geta’s parents. They had several animals including two terrifyingly large pigs, sheep, dogs, horses and cows, one of which I milked. The poor heifer was desperately in need of some Utter Cream. Afterwards, I was fed one of the best meals I’ve had in Romania and much to my surprise, it included sheep meat. Everything I ate there was completely home grown, raised, all natural, what have you. I was sent home with the largest bag of pickled vegetables for the winter. They also gave me fresh yogurt and milk, which has tasted the least cow teatish out of all the milk I’ve had thus far. All very exciting for a suburban gal but what astonished me the most was their gracious hospitality and treating me as one of the family. Although I couldn’t have been much more foreign to the experience, it provided a much needed sense of belonging. Unfortunately, this year it will be difficult to revive the essence of my own family but at least I now have the hope of reinventing one.

Uncle Buck

There are few things that I find to be greater than a beautiful fall day. Fortunately this has been the third one in a row and I can’t help but bask in it…even if that does mean running the risk of getting pelted by a falling walnut, protecting myself from Felix (the Landlord’s cat) and being sprayed by Alma’s (the Landlord’s dog) sudden sneezing attack that seems to be lingering for an obscene length of time.

As the crisp fall air settles in, so does a whole new round of cultural lessons. Although that is what I enjoy the most about being in Romania, it does bring on a wave of nostalgia of fall back home. However, I have been able to find some distant familiarities that assure me that life will be okay. I was starting to really miss the vibrant fall colors of Minnesota and crunching through the fallen leaves. Here I am surrounded by endless amounts of coniferous trees so the lack of color is inevitable but as I traipsed to the edge of town and into the hills I finally found what I had been missing. It was well worth the wait.

Yesterday I headed out for a walk with the intention of finding a quiet place to write but the splendor of fall enticed me to go further. I ended going half way up to Rarau Mountain, approximately a 2 hour hike through the hills, and came back via a mud road only to be passed by a strangely large number of nuns (if that’s in fact what the Orthodox call them) headed up to the monastery. I wish I could have shared the experience with someone because the entire 5 hours I was out and about, the magnificence of nature never ceased to amaze me. I saw what I believe are Red Elk. There were two ladies and one Giant Gent with antlers that could have served as a coat rack for a family of 12. Never before have I ever seen such a large deer type animal. After they moved on I spent the next 10 minutes slowly creeping forward out of fear that they would be awaiting me around each bend. Just as I gained momentum and returned to the comfortable groove I was in before the Uncle Buck sighting, I was greeted by a deathly bark. For some amazing reason, I had entirely forgotten about my greatest fear…the Carpathian Sheep Dog. How one forgets this is beyond me but nevertheless, I did. I hadn’t even found or even looked for my hiking stick yet. Between the terrifying barks, I could hear the bleats of the sheep he was protecting and unfortunately another intense bark of his co-worker. Now there was still quite a bit of distance between us but I had definitely been spotted so I slowly retreated to the nearest patch of woods to grab a stick. I snatched up the first one I saw and quickly erected the stick perpendicular to the ground. I then continued back through the field I had just come from but the sheep dog also continued in that direction. Was I not doing the Shepard Walk correctly? It was at that moment that I noticed that my stick was more of a dead branch 8 feet tall and the top resembled that 12 point fella I had just seen. I quickly broke ties with my deer disguise and shortened my branch into an actual Shepard stick. Then you can bet your ass I worked that Shepard Walk. And by God, it worked like a charm! Perhaps I’ll suggest that PC add Shepard Walking 101 to the In-Country Training because it is by far the most valuable lesson I’ve learned in Romania. Other than the mass Walk-by Nunning the remainder of the trip was relatively uneventful.

As I walk through the changes of fall in Campulung Moldovenesc, winter preparations are being made by everyone. One of the most visible being wood. There are no gas pipelines through town so sobas are used to heat the house or apartment. Some people have electric heating but it is quite expensive. I was told that wood is generally bought in late spring so they have all summer to chop and stack. Although I have witnessed this all through summer, it appears as though there’s been a mad rush recently and an increase of chain saws and axes being put to work. Also increasing is the scent of campfires (even though the smoke is coming out of chimneys). It is absolutely my favorite smell and the influx of frequency has been greatly welcomed. At home, the aroma was limited to days at the cabin and the few times people actually stoked up their own fireplaces, the real ones.

Inside the home, lots of work is also being done. Preparations of the winter food supply clearly take rank. They “can” just about everything imaginable, even fresh cheese – who knew? It’s a fairly interesting process to watch. I got the chance to observe my counterpart briefly who at the time was canning cheese and had just finished a vegetable mixture that will be used to make Bors throughout the winter. An amazing amount of salt is used to preserve the product. Language Side Note: Preservative in Romanian means condom. My counterpart thought it was awfully strange that I was inquiring about putting condoms in her jam. During the winter, from what I understand, potatoes are basically the only fresh produce you can buy. If there is anything else, it’s quite expensive. Personally, the only jar I have contains mustard, which could make for an interesting winter. Maybe a nice Bunica will take me in? I’ve been noticing that those who live in houses have another small building with another large kitchen serving as their Summer Kitchen. I’m thinking maybe it’s a more spacious area that can get dirtier to do all this canning business but I’ll have find out for sure.

Just as a side note…After plastic bottles, the most common thing I see on the street is a shoe, just one shoe. I simply don’t get it. Do people get home and realize they’ve lost a shoe along the way? Is there something I’m not comprehending? I mean, you don’t quite lose a shoe as easily as you would say…an earring, or do you? “Honestly, who throws a shoe?”

Turda Fest 2008

Yes, there is a town named Turda in Romania. The name itself has been a great source of entertainment for myself on several accounts, so clearly I’m not about to miss attending the festival and the opportunity to get a t-shirt that states Turda Fest. Possibly my favorite Turda discussion stemmed from explaining to my counterpart why hearing Turda simply makes me smile. Speaking in English, I explained that turd means poop and she laughed so I thought she understood. A few days later, I heard her telling her daughter “te turd” and just about peed myself. In Romanian, “te pup (pronounced poop)” means I kiss you and is said quite often. So…when I said poop she thought I meant kiss and consequently had been telling her daughter that “I turd you.” I still reap happiness from that boob.

There are 2 PCV’s (Liz and Joe featured on the right) who work at the organization who puts on this Turda Fest, an agricultural festival, and they solicted the help of about 15 other PCV’s. I gladly accepted so I could finally make Turda a reality. Not to mention the organization stated they would provide us with a free place to stay and meals, so I obviously had to go. However, upon arrival we were informed that we would be staying at the center for people with disabilities. You can only imagine the visions that went through our heads. Fortunately, it ended up just being one big room with a bunch of mattresses so it wasn’t too bad.

In addition to helping with setting up and taking down stands until all hours of the morning, our biggest task was carrying onions. Some brilliant person had the idea of creating the world’s largest onion chain. I’ve never seen so many onions in my life. Bunicas had been braiding these chains for weeks. We carried these chains to the site and lined them up for approximately 10 hours. It was probably one of the most ridiculous “official” things in which I have ever participated. That’s probably a lie. Either way, it was a good time and I did indeed get a Turda t-shirt as proof. Oh yeah, we did make the new world record...5,800 meters.

I Heart Trains

I’ve come to the conclusion that I love riding in trains. Although you can’t blare the music and sing at the top of your lungs as you can on a road trip, it’s almost worth the trade of not having to worry about navigating yourself and thus being able to completely lose yourself in the passing scenery. That is of course until the anxiety of trying to figure out when to get off kicks in. It really is ridiculous that there is no way to know when it is your stop. That really is an adventure in itself. Then of course you always have the Bunica or drunk man (who will always offer you a swig from his bottle) who continuously attempts to converse with you even though you clearly are not understanding half of what they are saying. For some reason, trying to decipher Romanian coming from a limited tooth speaker is so much more difficult. On my last train ride I was awoken up by a car full of elderly and possibly toothless Romanians yelling, “Domnisoara, Domnisoara!” They were concerned I was going to miss my stop, which conveniently was not for another 3 hours. A very kind gesture indeed but the spray of the Bunica’s “s” pronunciation next to me is one example of why one feels so dirty after riding the train.

Nevertheless, transportation via train gives you the opportunity to fully experience the travel adventure at hand. I love to travel because there is so much to observe; the scenery, the history, the culture, the people. You finally get to observe it firsthand but still as an outsider. When traveling, there are generally very few occasions when you get the opportunity to experience the unknown firsthand. Thus, there is absolutely nothing more amazing and moving as strangers inviting you into their home and proudly sharing their culture with you; sharing their lives, their experiences, all from their perspective. You are still very much an observer but no longer as an outsider. I don’t think you can truly appreciate another culture unless you are genuinely invited into the real experience by the natives (not a mock experience that we are all too familiar with as tourists).

This weekend I went to Ocna Mures, an old mining town of 10-15,000 people. There are a few PCV’s who developed a Roma Affairs Committee and I attended the first meeting with 8 other volunteers. We first volunteered at a day program for children, many being Roma orphans. It’s amazing how quick they are to love. Hugging you upon hello and not wanting to ever let go. It wrenches my heart to think what their lives are like and having no one to love them. We had a great time playing with the children, so much energy and laughter from both the kids and volunteers. Afterwards we were invited to the home of a Roma family, who shared the culture of their music. The father played the guitar, the mother sang, and after each song the son was able to explain the meaning and how music is really the only thing they had to hold onto when under slavery for approximately 142 years in Romania. Thus, music is very much part of their culture. They even showed us how to dance but I clearly did not have the hip action required. Additionally, they served us a delicious traditional Romanian dish, Sarmale. The entire family was genuinely excited to meet and learn all about us. Being able to sit in their home amongst the family graciously sharing their culture is not something that can be recreated. There really are no words to explain the feeling. But if I had to, I would say something along the lines of a peaceful happiness. For me, it almost feels like coming home. Although I couldn’t be further away from home, it just feels right.

After dinner we stopped at a local watering hole, which truly was in a little village outside of Ocna Mures. After a round of beers, the locals had us traditional dancing and teaching us the infamous Manele chop.

And now I’m back on the beloved train, on my way home. It’s funny how I’ve grown accustomed to the length of time it takes to travel. For example, I traveled almost 8 hours one way to go somewhere for 2 days, not even. Even if I were to go by car, it would not be much better, if any. Possibly this is partially why the pace of life is so much slower than I’m use to. The concept of time here…nearly nonexistent.

Walk Like A Shepard

Strangely, summer is over and I realized that I did not get to swim once. Growing up in Minnesota you really do take for granted the endless bodies of water that you can submerge yourself into on a hot summer day. Nevertheless, I deeply miss being on and near the water, there just seems to be an automatic calming effect. However, I do not feel this way about the ocean. That beast just scares me, which might be due to that one traumatic day at Big Beach in Hawaii. Age 12, I went frolicking into the depths of these big waves with my father and older sister. When I had enough I started back towards the beach but the current kept pulling me under and I flailed my arms in panic. Mom, who was ashore with the camera, thought I was having the time of my life and proceeded to take pictures and wave. It wasn’t until I washed up like an exhausted manatee, topless and blonde (from all the sand) that she realized she had been shooting her daughter’s first and only modeling shoot, The Great Ship Titanic. From that day on, for some reason the only connection I’ve felt to the ocean is salt water taffy, that…I like.

So on what I figure will probably be the last day of warm weather, which is weird because it is in the 80’s, warmer than it’s been all summer, I ventured up another one of the many surrounding foothills/mountains. There’s nothing quite like being able to look out your window and say, “I’d like to climb that today.” Then there being no real path, so you do a little bushwhacking of your own, relying on your own instincts to find the way to your appointed peak. All while steering clear of the sounds of cowbells and attempting to not climb farm fences that have terrifying Carpathian Sheep Dogs awaiting to bite your freshly tanned hide. Being able to find your way and reaching the top without being attacked by animals gives you that immediate feeling of achievement and a true sense of pride.

If I ever felt impelled or even qualified to give you any hiking advice, it would be to find a stellar walking stick. Not only does it provide body support and assist in bushwhacking but it also allows you to successfully perform the “Shepard Walk.” As explained by a Romanian, when going near these ferocious sheep dogs you simply drag your stick on the ground, hunch over like a Shepard and if you feel so inclined, yell, “Go to the sheep!” Another Romanian told me that was absolutely false information but in all seriousness, I have performed the walk and will not hesitate to walk like a Shepard again. Okay, I too am noticing my fear of animals to be a little excessive, maybe I’ll consider looking into some help. Unless, mother? Is there something you’re not telling me about my childhood? I already know that grandma dropped me on my head onto a concrete floor so what could be worse than that?

On the way back down, sweaty and tuckered out, I passed the Moldova River. It immediately enticed me to put my feet in, so I found my way down the rocky embankment, hoisted my tush on another pile of rocks, untied my thistle covered shoes and immersed my newly blistered feet into the freezing water. As I washed the blood and dirt off my legs, which clearly did a bit of bushwhacking themselves, I considered wading in a bit further. At that moment a piece of trash floated by brushing my toes. Looking closer into the water I feasted my eyes on an old red bucket, some form of turquoise clothing and an old 2x4 (or 6x12 or whatever that translates to in the metric system). Ironically, I was discouraged from going any further so here I sit, on my now numb ass, writing my thoughts from the day.

Across the way, there is a mother wading in the river while her four-ish year old son, complete with Speedo, scavenged dirty treasures from under the flowing water. At some point I must have clearly missed the memo that stated, “All women and men, regardless of age or size, should wear bikinis and Speedos, respectively.” Dear lord, whoever wrote that memo should be severely punished. Anyone interested in visiting can definitely wear their suit here or lack there of with great comfort and ease.

That was one week ago, it’s now 40 degrees colder and I’m doing some obscene dance calisthenics around the house to Europa FM to stay warm. I’m thinking today just might be the day that I fac foc in soba mea, yes, that’s right, get the fire started. Last week I bought all my wood and got it chopped for the winter. What more could a girl ask for?

You know the scene in 101 Dalmatians when one dog starts barking to alert another about Cruella or whatever other shenanigans are going down and instantly every other dog in town is also barking? Well, I feel as if that scene is permanently stuck in instant replay mode as I go through each day in Romania. Truthfully, I now can’t sleep without the sound of dogs or any other animal but frankly the neighbor’s cow who has been giving birth for the past three nights needs to go. This little revelation made me realize that despite how much of an outsider I still feel, I am adjusting to daily life in Campulung. I don’t cringe quite as much when I sit on my plastic cushy toilet seat. Who invented those things? They gross me out! And they remind me of my great grandma, Nana Be, who was one of the most amazing women I have ever known, you know, a good stubborn Norwegian lady, but Nana Be would kill bats with a tennis racket and flush them down her toilet. Trust me, I witnessed it with my own eyes so obviously I’m going equate sitting on a puffy toilet seat with the traumatic vision of a bat flying back out and attacking my ass. Now that I think about it, there is a higher chance of encountering vampire bats here. So…perhaps I haven’t quite adjusted to the toilet seat that feels like you’re sitting on a mushroom. Again, what’s with the mushrooms?

On the other hand, I have grown accustomed to experiencing the gentle shock of cultural experiences. In fact, they never cease to amaze me. Just the other day I was walking to meet my Romanian tutor at 3pm and I spot a body laying on the side of the road. Obviously my first thought was, sweet baby jesus there’s a dead man but then I remembered…of course, it’s well into the afternoon, why wouldn’t there be a man passed out on the side of the street where people literally are stepping over him to get by. To be fair, I’m not insinuating that all Romanians are drunk at 3pm. However, public intoxication and as long as were at it, public urination, is not an unlikely sighting, especially amongst older impoverished men. Anyhow, as I passed him, I attempted to see if he was breathing (of course from a good arm’s length away) but had no luck. Much to my relief, I then saw a policeman walking towards us. After we crossed paths I stopped to see what would happen. The police officer shook the man’s shoulder. Nothing. He then used his foot to pick up the man’s head and then just dropped it. The man possibly briefly flinched but instantly was back to his “nap.” The policeman, well he simply continued on his way. I just stood there amazed, thinking “are you fricking kidding me?”

As long as were on the topic of walking, I have also grown accustomed to seeing funeral processions walking down the street with an open casket. One day I had a little extra time and of course a bit of intrigue built, so I walked a couple blocks with them. In front of the open casket, it was quite interesting to see them carrying a wide array of food, flowers and religious banners. Apparently the more important you are the more priests you have attending, so it has not been unlikely to see 2 or 3 priests walking amongst the procession.

I recently read that only 50% of the Romanian population has running water, while still almost 30% live below the poverty line. On the first of the year (2009) the minimum wage, which I’m guessing is what the poverty line is based upon, will be increased to 600 Lei per month, approximately 240 American Dollars. Fortunately I have been placed in a location with running water, however, for years the water in Campulung Moldovenesc is turned off between 10pm and 5am. Strangely I have not been able to find out exactly why but some of the locals like to joke that they were just ahead of the conservation train, which most likely could not be further from the truth. Since it’s not unusual to find the water off during the day either, I quickly learned the tricks of having large water jugs on reserve.

Additionally, I have continued my domestic training. I figure now is the time to do things I never really had (or took) the time to do before. Cooking clearly being my foremost and biggest challenge. Last week I was overjoyed to find soy sauce and thought making fried rice would be a good place to start. Experiencing somewhat of a success and limited frustrations, I thought I would give Salata de Vinete, a Romanian dish, a whirl. The most difficult task of this concoction is roasting the eggplants over the open flame on my stove. You can only imagine the possibilities. A few minor burns and one house reeking of smoked eggplant later, it turned out to be fairly tasty for my first attempt. Then again, I might not be the greatest judge of taste at this point because I’ve been at the mercy of my own hands.

A Day In the Life of...

Lord knows who, sometimes I wonder if it really is real. This past week I contracted the black lung and it just could not be solved. Finally, I was able to receive an actual real prescription from the Peace Corps Doctor, so I asked my counterpart to go to the pharmacy with me to ensure I was not given testosterone pills or something of the alike. She gratefully accepted but first wanted to stop at her doctor to see what else I should be doing to improve my health. After her doctor gave us a list of additional medications I should get, she stated that if these did not cure my illness that I probably had mushrooms growing in my chest. Now the image of fungi sprouting in my lungs inevitably made me giggle, and produced the everlasting perma-grin. When later discussing this with another fellow volunteer, she expressed concern that with the influx of gnomes in Romania that if these mushrooms had been harvesting themselves for quite some time that they in fact may be hosting gnomes. You can only imagine my life flashed before my eyes at the grave possibility of contracting Gnomes Disease. Now, I don’t mean to mock anyone intentionally but how funny would it be if I brought a mushroom into the doctor and said, “Look what I finally coughed up.”

The following day, feeling refreshed and noticing a significant shrinkage in my mushrooms, I was ready for a little change. Of course, you always start with the hair. Truthfully, not only has it not been cut since before I left but it had come time to part with the perm (AKA the Loose Wave for all those judging me for getting a perm in 2008.) Occasionally, the fun part of being a PC volunteer is being resourceful. Thus, I worked with what I had; a fellow volunteer willing to cut and the Bandage Scissors that came in the PC issued First Aid Kit. I only had three stipulations; cut up to my shoulders, no drastic layers leading to the ever glorious Euro-mullet and absolutely no rat tail. We had gone out behind the Bloc building, so while Mary cut away I sadly watched adults dumpster dive with their children. I became so intrigued and excited for a dad and son, who found a few old tires and loaded them onto their rickety cart that I lost track of what was going on with my hair. Before I new it, I had the most severe inverted wedge that would even show up Posh Spice. We were able to shorten the ridiculously long front but what startled me most was the back that was much closer to my head than my shoulders. When I later got home, I still was not a fan of the inverted wedge/Bob with which I was left, so I took matters into my own hands. A decision I immediately regretted. I thought if I just evened things out so the front was the same length as the back, the situation would be remedied. Unlike Jason Mraz, I did not have the remedy. My hair is up to my chin and slightly resembles the mushrooms in my chest. Game over.

In order to get away from the mushrooms that seemed to be overtaking my life, I went out for a walk. I headed to the northern outskirts of town, where I haven’t really ventured before. I crossed Campulung’s main street, the train tacks, Moldova River and took a dirt road through a neighborhood that more resembled life that I associate with the word “village.” As the sheepdogs got bigger and the cow pies more frequent, I immediately knew I was on one of those roads that only people who lived there went down for everyone gave me the look of “one of these things doesn’t belong.” When a third old woman asked where I was going, I finally decided to attempt a conversation. This Bunica only came up past my waist and was loaded down with two large bags. She was too cute to pass up so I offered to help carry her bags home. We continued down the narrow dirt road, while she intermittently held onto my arm or put hers around my waist. Bunica found it amusing to tell all the neighbors we passed that I was American and I didn’t understand Romanian, so I smiled while they most likely had a good laugh at my expense. By the time we reached her house she had made two things very clear; that I was crazy for being here by myself and that she did not approve that I had nothing to cover my ears (the current would clearly make me ill.) Before going our separate ways she made sure that I wanted to have children and that I did indeed have a scarf at home to cover my ears. Although, I didn’t comprehend half of what she talked to me about, I still enjoyed myself thoroughly. This was the type of experience I imagined when signing up for the Peace Corps. Like life anywhere, the wider array of emotions, and the more ups and downs one can experience in a 24 hour period, the prouder you are to call it a day. A day in the life of…

Back to Life

As I walked home this evening through my own little town of Bethlehem, I saw a woman running laps in the caged in paved soccer field in the dark. I couldn’t help but do a double take and stare in awe. All this time the locals have forced me to feel like nothing other than a freak of nature when going on jogs. If I only knew my self-esteem could have been protected by a cage amongst the darkness of night. I could not help but giggle, and I was reminded that it’s the small, unique and perhaps the awkward encounters that bring joy to my life. One of the first things my mom asked me when we met in Ireland was, “Do you like it? Are you happy?” My response, “I couldn’t be happier! Although I’m so far from those who mean the most to me, and on a daily basis I’m put in anxiety ridden situations…I feel more alive, more like the person I’m suppose to be and enjoy being.” Yet today, a week after I watched my family fade away into the Shannon Airport, was the first time I truly smiled and felt that pilot light inside reignite.

I knew it would be difficult to leave my family again but I didn’t expect that I would have to start my integration all over again. Prior to leaving Romania, I had forgotten the ease and comforts I once had in going to buy food using English, experiencing customer service AKA someone who is not angry that they have to assist you and even waiting in an actual line, where people are not pushing or simply walking directly to the front. When I left, I had nothing but praises for Campulung Moldovenesc but upon returning my heart could only sing, “once upon a time I was falling in love, now I’m only falling apart.” Needless to say, it has taken me a few days to get back on my feet and tell people I had a vacation of a lifetime without getting tears in my eyes.

Over these past few days, it simply took an excursion to the pharmacy, where I didn’t need an actual prescription to purchase medication, an invitation to my tutor’s house for a family dinner and a woman running in caged darkness for me to remember that this is where I want to be… a total eclipse of the heart.

Tiddle Bits & Winks

Meanwhile, back at the ranch… I will be living with my Gazda for another month because I cannot move into my little house until August 1st. A bit disappointing because I’m anxious to get out on my own, as I have been living out of a suitcase since February and it’s hard to be entirely at ease when you are a guest in a stranger’s home. However, “Beast” is a nice lady and an excellent cook (it has been nice having a personal cook for the past 5 months; it’s the best I have eaten in years). She does tend to be more protective than my own mother ever was but then again maybe I have just forgotten her glory days. Gazda mama does not allow me to walk around the house (or even 3 feet) without slippers because obviously my ovaries will freeze and clearly sleeping with the window open in the summer is going to make me sick - oh if she only knew I kept my bedroom window open all winter at Highland Village (Disclaimer: we didn’t have to pay for heat and we had no control over the 1920 radiators, so I’d rather be damned before I sweat in my sleep when it is below freezing outside).

Before school let out for the summer, I went on a field trip with my counterpart’s third grade class (ages 8-12 years old). Definitely not like any field trip I have been on back home. We did the typical activities; went to Putna Monastery (where Stefan cel Mare is buried), stopped and had a picnic lunch and went to the Zoo in Suceava. However, from the moment I arrived at the school the incidents were atypical. One student was not there, so I went with another student to the MIA student’s house to see if he was coming but he was at grandmas so we still had no answers. Nevertheless, he did magically show up on the bus right before we left. As we departed all the children were handed plastic bags and through my awesome gesturing and Romanian, I learned they were barf bags (hmm, I thought, they do plan ahead here, even for the what-if situations, impressive.) Little did I know, the children are not use to being on any sort of vehicle, let alone experiencing the death defying mountainous roads. Thus, 7 out of 12 kids did vomit on the bus, 3 of which did it multiple times. My gag reflexes were at high alert but I was quickly amused each time by the ecological lesson of tying up the plastic bag, opening the front door and pitching the puke bag out of the moving vehicle. All I could imagine was doing a garbage clean up and coming across one of those gems. However, those environmental friendly activities don’t really exist yet so I guess we’re all safe from those gleaming (or perhaps steaming) diamonds in the rough. Some of these kids I don’t think had even been in a car because they had no idea what a seat belt was or how you would even begin to use such an apparatus. I was again quite amused by their creativity on how the seat belt should be worn. On the same note, some of them had never left our town so it was so fun seeing how excited they would get over the littlest things. It really was a humbling experience and almost refreshing to know that there are still people who literally light up by experiencing the little stuff we started taking for granted long ago.



Inevitably, the hills are alive and the sound of music continuously pulls me in. Unfortunately my days of frolicking freely like that crazy Maria are on a short hiatus, as I encountered those damn animals that always get the best of me. One glorious Sunday afternoon I hiked up behind Campulung Moldovenesc, envying the natural beauty and making detours on the account of cows. About an hour up, I took a brief menopause to tie my shoe and upon erecting my body I saw a bounding deer, my first sighting of a non-domesticated animal. I waited to see if any of his other furry friends would be leaping by but it appeared that Bambi was flying solo. Peacefully (my heart fluttering a little quicker) I watched Bambi spring out of view. That’s when it all went down. As soon as Leaping Lester was out of the picture, I heard a terrifying attack mode growl and I’m afraid the poor little fella probably went down for the count. I can’t quite explain the aggression of this attack and the pure terror that entered my soul. On second thought, if you happen to know my friendly Captain (AKA Lindsay Carol Mueller), she does a peculiarly perfect reiteration of a moose getting taken down by a Grizzly Bear. Regardless of your array of acquaintances, I’m sure even a lame imagination has at least provided you with a vision of fright in your ears. Nevertheless, I was homeward bound, full sprint down hill. Only looking back once to verify that this Carpathian Brown Bear, wolf, rabid dog or unidentified Bambi killer was not on my heels because lets face it, I’m not the quickest gal on the squad. How did my fifth grade basketball teammates put it? Ah yes, “you run slower than a dead pig.” Well, if they could only see me now. That one hour hike up, took a mere 10 minutes down. In addition to the lingering pain in my quads the following week, was the thought of almost meeting my maker on that dead deer day afternoon. My local informants expressed great disbelief and stated that if anything, it was a dog. And with that said, I put any ounce of interest you still had down the pooper.

In hopes to totally redeem myself, I can’t help but discuss the day the Circus came to Campulung. Now before you go passing judgment on why a lady of my caliber would be going to the circus, please ask yourself what you might do for entertainment. Plus, who could resist the enticing messages made through the mega-phone clad vehicle driving through town days before announcing that there would be snakes, spiders and dogs. Serios? Do we not already have enough dogs? At any reproduction rate, we went and I’m tempted to say it was glorious. How could you not enjoy a mafia run circus featuring Gringo the clown, Marius the man of many wonders, and exotic animals (AKA Camels with saggy humps).

If you ever wanted to know what else you might have done if you grew up in a small town, please listen to this amazing song, Atari Safari. Pretty standard procedure, I’m playing percussion with household items. Listen for the chicken breast – a real crowd pleaser (hot water bottle & wooden spoon), the Air Freshener Aerosol can (Mara’s house never smelled better) and my personal favorite, the cow bell (AKA jar and spoon).

At the end of June, I headed to Transylvania, where all was lost in translation, to work at an English Camp. Although I was not going all that far in terms of distance, travel time in Romania is quite lengthy so I broke the trip into 2 days. After the first 5 hour stretch, I met Christina in Cluj-Napoc, a large modern city/college town. Eventually we made our way to the homes of a couple other volunteers in Sighisoara, a small town colonized by the Saxon’s in the 12th century. Although it was quite touristy, I absolutely loved it here for the town was simply cute and quaint. Not to mention, the infamous Vlad Tepes was born here in 1431 and we saw the home where he lived until age 4. Technically, the building is centuries old but it has been rebuilt since Vlad’s birthing and is now a restaurant. This was located within the Medieval citadel fortified with a wall from the 14th century. As you enter, you go under the giant clock tour (Turnul cu Ceas) that dates back to 1280. We walked through Piata Cetatii, the center of old Sighisoara, where markets, executions, impalings and witch trials were once held. On the highest point of town sits the Church on the Hill, a Lutheran church built in 1345. Leading up to the church is a covered stairway (scara acoperita) built in 1642 to enable people to make it up the hill during all seasons. Behind this church on the hill was a large German cemetery. Another interesting tidbit is that the Saxon community had a third Lutheran church well out side of the citadel and was used as an isolation compound in the 17th century for individuals who fell to the plague and leprosy.

As the journey continued, we ventured into “Hungarian Transylvania” and it was honestly like going to another country all together, as Hungarians are the majority and generally refuse to speak the Romanian Language, although they do know some. Once again we were back at square one with language when we arrived in Odorheiu Secuiesc (97% Hungarian). When we went to a restaurant and asked for a menu, we ended up with a two course meal. This area appeared to have better up-keep and lacked an abundance of garbage scattered throughout town and along the rivers, which makes sense because the Hungarians in this area tend to have more money than the average Romanian citizen. Additionally, Hungarian food is know to be quite tasty but I did not find it anymore delicious than the traditional Romanian food I have had thus far. However, I believe I did succeed in eating at least 46 loaves of bread this past week. Nevertheless, there is still quite a bit of tension between the two groups, as that particular land has been fought over often and exchanged ownership during WWI and WWII.

The English Camp was excellent and for some reason I was surprised by the great fun I had. There were approximately 25 Hungarian 13 year olds (give or a take a couple years) who spoke some English, so the language barrier was not unbearable. There were about 10 PC volunteers and we all stayed at Maggie’s giant house in the next village over. It’s always a good time with the other volunteers, if not only for the sake of having friends. Our days started at about 8:30am and lasted until 10pm or so. They were long tiring days but thoroughly enjoyed.

The trip home was not any less exciting. We were in transit for 16 hours to go less than half way across the country that’s the size of Oregon. Regardless of the patience one must never ever lose sight of, I find this traveling to be the unpredictable adventure that just never grows old. We had a couple hours to spend in Targu Mures, a large town that is half Hungarian and half Romanian. Either way, we found a Chinese restaurant and even though they microwaved the food, it was in fact delicious Chinese food. Later on we had another 2 hours in Razboen, where I experienced my first Turkish toilet unsuccessfully. Upon walking out of the train station we saw a scaggle of weird birds and that was it, literally. So it was back to the tracks to wait but we did befriend some Bunicas, who kept assuring us we would learn better Romanian in two years. They made sure we got on the right train and were thrilled that we were on the same one, unfortunately different wagons. We didn’t wallow for long as we found yet another friendly Bunica awaiting us.
All in all, it had been an excellent trip and I was sad to see it come to an end. Especially since this ended with me getting my ass grabbed by a drunk man with an accordion on the train. The groping incident wasn't terrible and I won't be scarred for life but it is a little disturbing, which I didn’t think it would be until it actually happened. This has not been an uncommon occurrence for other female volunteers here, and sadly, this happens to Romanian women quite often as well. I have definitely observed the fairly rigid gender roles here, which are difficult to accept when a) you are accustomed to having autonomy and b) you simply don’t agree with it; but it’s not my culture nor is it terribly detrimental thus it is tolerable for two years. However, the fact that the men tend to feel at liberty to treat women like objects is not. Of course they do not all hold this mentality but it is heavily embedded into their society, so it makes for a long road ahead towards change. Despite the topic at hand, I will contend that chivalry has not been lost in Romania.

Lastly, if I’ve learned anything thus far it’s that planning is next to worthless here. Today I went through approximately 4 sets of plans, readjusting each time and creating a new time table, yet each and every one fell through. However, despite the frustration, I was pleasantly surprised by the randomness that prevailed throughout the day, which I’m gathering is an ever reoccurring theme here. In addition to completing some work with actual evidence, I got to experience my first caruta ride (horse drawn cart) on the way to the river side, where I continued to spend the afternoon basking in the sun. Although the surroundings are breathtaking, I was quickly saddened as I looked into the river and observed the abundance of trash. Even though I could have gone home with a pair of pants and a spare tire, I am still inspired to put together some type of clean up…how can you be in the middle of a natural paradise and come across such a wasteland? Dumb question I guess, as even the surface socioeconomic factors can explain why but nevertheless the irony is perplexing. This evening I accompanied my sitemates to visit the fish farm on the edge of town, where they whipped up a delicious fish fry. They had a garlic sauce that left you saying, “please sir, may I have some more?!” Consequently I most likely will be omitting it from my body for an obscene amount of days, which I suppose is better than Thomas’s self-claimed curried body odor.

Me, My Box & I on the 4th of July

In attempt to fill the void of the annual boat parade on Upper South Long Lake and the infamous Brainerd fireworks, which just doesn’t display the best mullets Minnesota has to offer, I thought I’d try a whole new kind of parade. Much like Christmas morning I awoke with great anticipation because today was the day I got to pick up my package from home, which has been waiting at the Posta since Monday. I started the day a little earlier than normal (yes 7am) so I could catch the 8am Maxi Taxi (Giant Conversion van style taxi) to Suceava, a town of 110,000 that perfectly portrays one of Romania’s many concrete jungles, (communism’s gift to architecture) 2 hours away. Turns out the Maxi Taxi did not arrive until 8:50am, which is a drop in the bucket when just last week it took me 6 hours to travel 60 km. Anyhow, I probably should explain: Campulung Moldovenesc does have a post office but for the soul reason of increasing apricot sales, we have to pick up packages in Suceava. What does apricot sales have to do with anything? Absolutely nothing, I simply still try to find reasoning behind the way of life here. The post office specializing in packages is only open M-F 9am-12pm and there’s a good chance they might close early, so it’s better to get there sooner than later. I arrived promptly at 11am and succeeded in picking up my package without any difficulties. It actually worked out well because I had another package awaiting me which I had not yet been notified about so it saved me a trip. However, I’m not quite sure what constitutes a package because it was an 8x11 manila envelope, which I have received at home on several accounts. Apricot sales must be low indeed.

On a typical package trip, I would immediately get back on another maxi taxi and return home, that is of course whenever the next maxi taxi might be. However, on this gloriously sunny and hot day (perfect for the 4th of July I must say) I was to continue on to Siret, another hour north and 1 km from Ukraine, to do a workshop. Luckily, I had 7 hours to kill before my counterpart and sitemate arrived. So I strapped on my backpack and grabbed my approximate 1 ½ square foot package and began to roam. I quickly approached St. Dimitru’s Church (built in 1535 and still displays exterior frescoes), where I took refuge on a bench in the church yard to collect myself. I explored the contents of my packages, from which I was then able to make some lemonade in my trusty nalgene, and then opened up my Lonely Planet travel guide to develop my plan of attack. There were not too many points of interest but I opted to visit the City of Residence Citadel, which was a short 3 km walk to the edge of town. Once again I strapped on my backpack, grabbed my box and giddyapped. Surprisingly I went directly to it and did not take my usual wrong turn along the way (however, I did later determine there was a much more direct route in which I didn’t have to walk out of town but that’s neither here nor there). When I first caught sight of the 1388 citadel fortress that warded off Mehemed II, conqueror of Constantinople in 1476, I was amazed to see what a vast complex it was. Now further intrigued, I eagerly paid my 2 Lei and descended into the fortress with my box in one arm and my camera in the other. We (me, my box and I) explored the execution place, old towers, guard rooms, prison, etc. and were pleasantly entertained by this bit of history. There were only about 8 other people that we encountered so I even managed to spook myself out.

On our jaunt back to town I had an overwhelming urge to use the facilities but clean and free public bathrooms are not a strong point in this country, so I stopped at a bench along side the road (not quite in town yet). I set my belongings on the bench and took a few steps behind into the woods to relieve myself. After I freshened up, I had a small picnic that entailed lemonade, apricots and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups (one of the box’s stronger points), read further in the Lonely Planet and documented this 4th of July splendor as you can see in this photo. Although it seems you have already been reading this particular memoir for hours, I still had another solid 5 hours.

Feeling re-energized, Me, My Box and I packed up and continued on to see what else the concrete jungle had to offer. We visited the Monastery of St. John the New (1522) that also still shows some of the legendary Frescoes of Bucovina, the Domnitelor (Princesses’) Church built in 1643 and possibly Mirauti Church (1375-91) the original Moldavian coronation church and where Stefan cel Mare became the ruler of Moldavia. Lastly, my pilgrimage took me up 300 stairs to the gigantic equestrian statue of Stefan cel Mare. It was quite a peaceful area out the city craziness that presented me with another enticing bench, where I awkwardly attempted to take a short cat nap with my head on my bag and my legs on my box.

Other than the museums, I felt confident that I had seen all Suceava had to offer so with 2 and half hours to go, I headed back to the bus station to wait for Godot. As scheduled my people arrived on time but only to find that the person who was picking us up was still over an hour away. We did eventually make it to Siret, Box and all, where we celebrated our independence at a “disco” in a town of 9,000 eating pizza with ketchup smothered on top.

On a side note, our workshop that we did for some of the hospital staff went fairly well. Since the focus was on Occupational Therapy, I did not have too much to offer so I got to present on the glorious topic of Active Listening (and for those of you here, you can only imagine how frustrating that was).

In conclusion, to be truly patriotic it is pertinent to carry around a large box with American postage while exploring Romanian history in a concrete Jungle, and then finish off the evening having drinks with a Ukrainian, who’s Romanian side kick does magic card tricks. My personal opinion…Uncle Sam’s being doing it all wrong!

Nadia-ville, Not A Perfect 10

As they say in the old country, “April showers bring May flowers.” And then there were more showers. The last week of May brought much discouragement and longing for folk back home – being an outsider was no longer enjoyable.

Prior to the ending of my honeymoon phase, I was able to go to Onesti, the hometown of ole Nadia. There was a Viva Moldova gathering as well, so I had a great time seeing people from my group and meeting other volunteers, who have been here for a while. It was fun to have friends again for the weekend and be able to speak in fluid English sentences, although I’m afraid that really is no longer in my repertoire. Any who, back to Nadia. FACT: Her father still works at the piata selling pickled cabbage. Unfortunately, we went to the wrong market to buy our ever so sweet cherries and strawberries and thus did not get to discuss the great legend. I did get to see the gymnasium where Nadia first trained and her namesake school. The statue was a bit of a let down, as it was not of her but of two random gymnasts, as exhibited in this photo. Nevertheless, I felt the Nadia vibes and was inspired to limber up to demonstrate some moves of my own. Before the glory could begin and I was able to recall the tragic ankle rolling at the Around the World party prior to my departure, we were stoned. One of the 12 million PC safety videos we watched during our staging in Philadelphia portrayed a young man’s experience of riding his bike with the required PC helmet through his particular location. He complained of being mocked (which I admit, I still do) and having rocks thrown at him. However, this guy didn’t give up; he used this as an opportunity for a cultural exchange and teaching the children about bike safety. Well my friends, we did not have our helmets on and simply found this to be an opportune time for a pauza from cultural integration. However, Hops performed a perfectly placed “Serios?” (only my favorite Romanian phrase) and the two of us gave the ultimate stare down. Great success, we scared off the 12 year old boys. Afterwards, I found out that back in the day two other volunteers in the area had been hog-tied by children with jump ropes. Perhaps I’m a terrible person but I felt better knowing that at least we had not been reduced to being captured like sows.

On a more positive note, June has started with a new exciting bang. Although I’m experiencing more free time than one is accustomed to, and find myself sewing amongst other new exhilarating solo activities, I do find it humorous that I’m becoming my own best friend. On one hand, this is a far healthier state I have ever found myself to be in but on the other hand, when do you draw the line? I mean, is it strange to have inside jokes with yourself? Well, in the meantime, I’ll enjoy entertaining myself and finding new strange hobbies.

As one might be able to conclude, I do not have much work to do quite yet. In the meantime, I am making it my job to continue my cultural integration. After my “woe is me” week, I have started back up saying “Buna Ziua” to all those I meet on the street and independently running errands, such as going to the post office, buying a toothbrush, etc. I finally found a tutor and will begin honing my Romanian skills once again next week, which will be greatly beneficial. Maybe one day I can stop talking to myself and begin expressing to others more than what I ate yesterday. Additionally, until work picks up, I have been using my time to further explore my village and the natural surrounding beauties. Once I found my way through several farms and snuck through the pasture of terrifying cows, I made it to the top of the mountain I have been staring at every day for the past month. Needless to say, I was ecstatic (and then I joked with myself about the time I fell).

The following day I returned to Vatra Dornei, where I met three other volunteers and we hiked in the Caliman Mountains up to the 12 Apostles. It was absolutely breathtaking and almost incomprehensible that such natural beauty exists (although they do not do any justice, please check out the pictures at the link to the right). After an exhausting 5 hour trek, we waited for our bus only to discover that there would not be another bus. Only in Romania; we grabbed some 2 Liters of only the best brew and begin the 25km walk back to town at 9pm. Our new aspiration quickly became unrealistic, and we stuck our thumbs out (actually the Romanian equivalent, an awkward downward hand wave.) An hour and two friendly drivers later, the four of us made it back into town.

Next on tap; floating down my local river, Moldova. Today I bought myself a present of a cheap 2 person blow-up raft and I can’t quite tell you how excited I am to try this little ditty out. Guarantee that with all the crap in the river that my little raft won’t make it too far but I’m so excited that I just can’t hide it. Until next time, Noroc.